Poppy Seed Cookies and a Remembrance of Things Past

As far as the revolving door of friendship goes, the older you get, the more spins it takes. People come and go in your life all the time.  Some go out for a spin and later, sometimes years later, come back for another go ‘round, and there are others who go through and never look back.

I heard some bad news the other day that was very unsettling. Someone I knew who had been one of those who went around my revolving door and headed out permanently was recently diagnosed with cancer. It hit me really hard because, even though we’d not seen each other in quite a few years, there was a time in our lives when we would see each other daily. Our children were the same ages and went to the same preschool. This woman and I were even pregnant at the same time with our youngest children. She was about a month farther along than I was, and when her time came to “jump off the diving board,” as I liked to put it, I remember I laughed and said, “it’s not fair..I’m ready to take the plunge but I'm still on the steps!"

One day not long after we’d both had our babies, I took her daughter home to have a lunch play date with my son. After I got the two older children settled in at the park with the box lunches I made for them, I carried my infant son back to the car with me to get his stroller. This was in the days before “clickers” were provided with every car you purchased, and when I went to open the hatch to get my purse, I realized my keys were locked in the car right next to it...and the stroller. So there I was: two toddlers, one of whom I didn’t even know that well, one infant, no purse, no stroller, no phone.(Remember, cell phones weren’t around 20 years ago...at least not for me.)

 Not wanting to alarm the children, I quietly begged for phone money from some guy who too was eating his lunch in the park. (I daresay it was someone else’s before he got to it.) He was outwardly dubious about my story, but he managed to scrounge up enough change for a toll call to my husband. Then I and my brood of three headed across a major thoroughfare--while I prayed we wouldn’t get run over--to a local coffee shop to make my call. As if I weren't feeling demoralized enough knowing that I was standing there with about 35 cents to my name, my son asked if he could have a gumball from the machine that was next to the phone. I guess my answer, “No, we don’t have enough money!”  was a tad too loud, because it prompted everyone sitting on their stools at the lunch bar to swivel around and take a look at the woeful wretch who couldn’t afford a gumball for her kid. It was definitely not one of my better days.

After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, my husband finally showed up, and we all finally went home. I was more than embarrassed to explain the situation to this little girl’s mom, but she took it in stride, and I never got the feeling that she held the incident against me. I’ve never forgotten that debacle, or how gracious she was about it.

 One other thing I’ve never forgotten about her were some cookies she made for a bake sale.  I honestly don’t remember what I brought to the sale, but I remember her very delicious, very simple, half-dollar-sized cookies. Shortbread cookies--golden brown along the edges, with just enough ginger and cinnamon to differentiate them from plain old shortbread cookies. They contain poppy seeds, and although I am not usually a poppy seed fan, they add a bit of welcome texture. These are icebox cookies--rolled into logs, chilled, and then sliced. The nice thing about them is that you can keep the logs in the freezer until you need them, let them thaw a bit, slice as many cookies as you want, and then return the log to the freezer for the next time.

When I asked for the recipe, it took a while to get it. (Uh, maybe she did hold that incident against me!) I still have the paper on which the recipe was written. The handwriting is very small, neat, and businesslike...just like this woman. I have held off from recopying it through the years, and merely fold it up and tuck it back into my wooden recipe file whenever I use it.  A recipe written in the originator's own hand gives it a vintage kind of feel. And I like that. And now it's even more meaningful. Originally called Poppy Seed and Nut Slices,  I’ve renamed them simply "M's Cookies."

My sister and brother-in-law were visiting this weekend to help celebrate my birthday. I can’t remember the last time we were together on either of our birthdays, so even though it wasn’t a milestone year (thank goodness!), it was a special occasion. 

I baked the cookies for my sister in my friend’s honor. I don't think I will be calling to ask about her health--too much time has past since we were in contact, and I think a call from me out of the blue would be jarring--and seem intrusive. I tend to shy away from awkward moments, not because I would feel unable to handle them, but because I wouldn't want to impose that kind of uneasiness on anyone else. I'll keep my distance until I feel the time is right...if ever. But I am thinking about her and wishing her well. 

It may sound strange, but people seem closer to me when I am either eating the food they’ve prepared, or eating something I’ve prepared on my own from a recipe they’ve given me. It’s almost as though they’re sitting next to me--watching.  

My sister loved the cookies, and I gave her a few to take with her on the long drive back to New Jersey. I bet they never made it home.

M’s Cookies

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 cup sugar

1 egg

1 tsp. vanilla extract

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/3 cup poppy seeds

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. ground ginger

1/4 tsp. salt

1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped hazelnuts or almonds

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg and vanilla extract. 

In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, poppy seeds, , cinnamon, ginger, and salt.

Gradually add dry ingredients to butter mixture. Add nuts on low speed and mix until all are combined.

Shape dough in 2 logs, about 1 1/2 inched in diameter. Wrap in waxed or parchment paper and chill for at least two hours. Once chilled, using a sharp knife, slice into 1/4-inch slices. Place one inch apart on a parchment paper-lined sheet pan.

Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown, in a preheated 350-degree oven.

Every Object Tells A Story

A movie theater ticket, bent and misshapen, a swatch of a baby blanket, soft and weathered from hundreds of washings and years of cuddling, a teacup handle, gilt-edged and hairline-cracked. These may all be useless items to most people, but what they represent to others can fill tomes, and then some. They are silent story tellers, waiting for their tales to be unraveled--and its up to their owners to do the telling.

I once saw a report on the news about a woman who meticulously saved all of her receipts in a box for five years. At the five-year mark, she went through them and felt as though she were looking at a five-year encapsulation of her life. Through these receipts she knew what she ate, when she was dieting (and when she wasn’t). They helped her remember old boyfriends and what she wore on some dates, classes she took, and books she read. When I first heard that, I remember thinking she was a little crazy. After all, there are much simpler and more thorough ways of chronicling one’s life than trying to decipher the flotsam and jetsam on a bunch of crumpled up, faded cash register receipts. And once the information is collated, you then have to read into what it actually symbolizes.

Well, I thought the idea was nutty until I went through an old handbag that I hadn’t used since I relocated from California.... 

Amidst the detritus at the bottom of the bag: some old pieces of gum--with and without the wrappers, sixty cents in spare change, a half-empty tube of sunscreen, a prescription I never filled, and a few now-spent pens, were a slew of receipts. 

Since I moved, anything from my past has become Smithsonian-worthy to me, so rather than chuck the receipts, I decided to put them in piles and go through them. And with each one I glanced at I began to understand just what that “cuckoo” woman meant. I know that people save receipts for business and tax purposes, but they’re looking at the bottom line--the total.  Once they’re done with them, they get tossed or stapled to some expense report. There is not one iota of sentimentality attached to those pieces of paper. To those owners, they signify money, or the loss of it. I was approaching these receipts as bits and pieces of my past life. And when I looked at it that way, those origami-like folded slips of paper took on a whole new level of importance. 

There were various receipts from restaurants in and around Calabasas and Los Angeles, where I used to live. One from the middle of March reminded me of a dinner our group of friends had at a local Italian restaurant celebrating my friend Julie’s birthday. We were a loud group, as usual, and Julie gave out bags of her famous mandel bread as party favors. I remembered having just come from an open house at a nearby clothing store where they were kind enough to feature my candy and help me promote my business. I ate a tuna tower. I gleaned all that from one little receipt!

In amongst the grocery receipts--that pile was the largest--was one from Henry’s Market. On that day, I purchased, among other things, bell peppers, lettuce, eggplant, chicken breasts, and sun-dried tomato turkey sausage. The date was sometime in May. May was great because everyone was home in May. Probably did some grilling that very night. My family loved Henry’s sausages--they were all homemade. I would usually grill some up while I was grilling chicken and veggies. My boys and my husband would have those sausages with some coarse mustard--it helped them wait a little more patiently for the rest of the meal to be cooked. Through all this the dog would be running around trying to snipe something, anything, that would fall on the floor. Just one receipt brought me back to that place.

Amongst some purchases on a Bloomingdale’s receipt was a purse for which I used a coupon. I remember the purse--it was sage green, and it had lots of pockets. It was perfect for my upcoming trip to Italy. I was leaning towards the yellow purse in the same style and my friend Kathy said, “go with the green,” so I did.  Every few months Kathy and I would meet for lunch and then go shopping. She is one of the few friends I have that will share a dressing room with me. We’ve seen each other naked enough times that it doesn’t really matter. And quite often, she’ll try something on and say, “this would look better on you.” And sometimes it does, and sometimes what I’ve got on will look better on her. But always, no matter where we go, Kathy will say, “Wait, I’ve got a coupon!” And on that day, she did, and the green handbag was my constant companion in Italy. (If you’ve seen any of my photos from that trip, you’ve seen the bag!)

Before my trip to Turkey this past May, I tried to read some books that would give me a feel for the country. One in particular, The Museum of Innocence, by Orhan Pamuk, was a wonderful story about two families, one aristocratic and one lower class, who lived in Istanbul during the 60s. It is a tale of love, betrayal, and obsession, and explores a culture not often dealt with in novels that I have read. On another, even more interesting level, the book also deals with mementos and their preservation. 

Throughout the years, the main character secrets away everyday items that are meaningful to him--buttons, handkerchiefs, hair clips, an earring. Random objects, so insignificant that their disappearance is not even noticed. But to him they represent years and years of memories--shards of his heart and soul. So precious are they to him that he creates a museum devoted to these "treasures," and invites anyone else who would care to donate mementos of their own to do so. The irony in all of this is that life has imitated art--the author has actually created a real museum that mirrors the one in the book. It is located in an Istanbul townhouse, and has been described not so much as a museum, but as a “story den.” I unfortunately, did not get to the museum while we were in Turkey, but I certainly understand it’s significance. 

We are surrounded by stories--every object we see is a part of one, and if taken to the extreme, every object can be elevated to being a museum-quality piece. Even if it’s merely for a museum in your mind.

The saying goes, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” but it should really be, “One man’s trash can also be his history.” I must admit that I have not, as the character in my book who has been overtaken by madness, relegated any of my receipts to a museum, but they and the motley crew of items that were hiding at the bottom of my purse, did give me a glimpse into a forgotten period of my life. I didn’t learn anything earthshaking about myself, but it was nice diversion...and a nice blast from the past.

Candlelight

The flames from the Yahrzeit candles painted an orange sheen on the walls of our kitchen. The rows of small candle-filled glasses were neatly lined up, one after another, in metal pans that my mother kept just for this occasion. I say that it was an occasion, but that’s really not true. The word occasion, for me, conjures up something pleasant, like a birthday party with a double fudge cake and gift bags stuffed with various hues of pastel tissue papers hiding lotions and beaded trinkets beneath them. Or a Fourth of July picnic--hot dogs, potato salad, heirloom tomatoes, and giant chocolate chip cookies passed around in plates the shape of lobsters; cloth napkins that look like the American flag. Yahrzeit candles--otherwise known as memorial candles--are not pleasant. They serve as a reminder of the dead; to honor them. They burn for 24 hours, and by the time they are burned out, the memory of the dead has been burned into your mind. 

It is Jewish custom to light a candle on the anniversary of someone’s death and on certain holidays, but since my parents were Holocaust survivors and could not be sure of the exact dates of the deaths of all in their families who had perished, they did this big time on Yom Kippur.

I always thought one candle would have been enough of a memorial, but my dad was adamant that there be many. I cannot say that there is any hard and fast rule that every dead person gets his or her own memory candle, but my mom obliged Dad’s wishes. So we had many. And there they were, year after year. Serving as a reminder of the huge hit our family took during that horrible time in history. They stood there, in their rows and their flames flickered as if to say, “we are still here, we still matter.”

I don’t know why I never questioned some of the things my parents did. Never asked them how they felt or told them how I felt. It’s almost as if the reasons behind everything they did, good or bad, were because of what they had been through. It was understood, a given. We shied away from bringing attention to “it” for fear that we would hear more than we cared to hear in any explanations.

Most of the year they held it together. They were able to celebrate when the celebrating was appropriate (sometimes), but this holiday...this holiday was different. This was a somber holiday, thus my mother took the opportunity to revel in it’s solemnity. Today it was expected of her to beat her chest.  It was a day of atonement--a period of repentance, and she took that as being her right to mourn. We were not permitted to turn the lights on...nor the TV, radio, or any other electrical appliance. My dad would do his praying at temple, but my mom stayed home and stood with her prayer book...by herself. Those nights, in the almost dark apartment (we kept a light on all night), I would watch her praying and wonder what she was repenting for. What sins had she committed during the year? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Those nighttime hours seemed interminable.

The daylight hours were almost bearable: weather permitting, my sister and I would get out of the house and take long walks, passing through neighborhoods we ordinarily would not get to see on foot. We would walk for hours, knowing that each passing minute would bring us closer to the day’s end...and food! When we were younger, or when it rained, much of the holiday was spent playing board games and reading.  Not such a bad thing, really. And ironically, a lot of the reading was of the various food magazines scattered around the house. We would look at the pictures and dream about what we would eat once our fast was over. (There’s nothing like being a glutton for punishment!) 

Devoting a day to reflection is almost welcomed, now that I am an adult. My family and I observe the holiday very differently than I did as a young girl. We still do a lot of reading (not in the dark) and praying, but there is the understanding that this holiday is all about introspection and making our peace with God. It’s almost like a spiritual cleansing. For me, the mourning and chest beating are symbolic. I don’t think my parents could ever have intellectualized it in that way. They’re minds were too clouded with the antiquated teaching of the religion they grew up with, and as always, with their experiences. 

My room was down the hall from the kitchen, and as I lay in my bed, I could see the orange cast of the candlelight. Even as my eyes were closed, I could imagine the flickering flames shining through my eyelids. If I closed the door, the faint orange glow would slide in through the thin strip of space between the door and the carpet. Just couldn’t get away from it. The strange thing was, this light didn’t haunt me--but it did sometimes upset me. It reminded me of who my parents were, and I just wanted them to be like everyone else. 

There’s a small aluminum pie tin on my counter on Yom Kippur. It holds two Yahrzeit candles whose flames flicker and dance for twenty-four hours.  They are for my parents, and they remind me, “We are still here...we matter.”

Cooking Matters...A Great Program!

I grew up in a home where food was always in abundance. My parents were both Holocaust survivors who often spoke about the time in their lives when food was at a premium--when a crust of bread, or a spoonful of soup was more valuable than gold. When people would, and sometimes did, do unthinkable things, just to get something to eat. So, to my parents, a well-stocked pantry and fridge meant success and comfort...and most of all, it was symbolic of their survival. They’re greatest joy was to feed people, and it was incumbent upon anyone who walked into our kitchen to have something--a snack, a fruit, and often the ultimate, a meal. My mother could not fathom how, in such a great land as America, people were starving. She knew firsthand what it felt like to be hungry and never wanted others to experience that feeling. And she passed that desire on to me.

Children who are poorly nourished suffer up to 160 days of illness each year.

I first became acquainted with Share Our Strength, a national nonprofit bent on ending childhood hunger in America, when I was a pastry chef. The organization works closely with the culinary industry, and relies heavily on its generosity and expertise. Through fundraisers such as Great American Bake Sale, and Dine Out For No Kid Hungry, it raises money to fund their programs and feed hungry Americans. Their goal is quite simple, but unfortunately in these sad financial times, it can often seem quite herculean: “to connect children with the nutritious food they need to lead healthy, active lives." 1 out of 5 children in this country go to bed hungry...it is unthinkable!

50% of Cooking Matters teens are eating more vegetables.

                                     

1. Through SOS, I became affiliated with a program called Cooking Matters. I taught nutrition classes to students in Los Angeles for many years through a grant program, and Cooking Matters sounded very similar. It too is a nutrition education program, but it’s so much more, as it connects chefs and dietitians with entire families who are at risk of hunger. You see, the problem is not that there is a lack of food: "There is plenty of nutritious food in America and there are effective programs in place to help feed hungry children. But too many families are not connected to these programs." The professionals teach cooking skills, food safety, food budgeting, and resource management, with the intent of empowering these people with the confidence to go home and make healthy, affordable meals for their families. One of the guiding principles of the program is that food is to be enjoyed, and even those who are living with very low incomes deserve to enjoy their food as well. Encouraging these families to prepare meals at home also encourages them to eat more healthfully and together as a family. The ritual of the family meal has been proven to be a social activity that has a direct impact on the well-being of children.
2. Childhood obesity has more than tripled in the last 30 years.

Cooking Matters For Kids is another portion of the program. It doesn't deal so much with the cost and budgeting aspects of food...it is more nutrition-based, and for six weeks this past summer, it was my program of choice. I, and my fabulous team: the program coordinator, Kate, dietitian, Cara, and assistant, Michele, taught a group of 13 students, from 3rd grade through 5th. The classes were themed (Healthy Snacks, Healthy Breakfast Options, Whole Grain Goodness, etc.), and divided into sessions--nutrition, cooking, and eating, and by the time these kids were through, they had a really strong sense of what was and was not healthy eating. We discussed knife skills and life skills. They learned cooking basics: cutting, chopping, measuring, as well as how to read labels, work together in groups, and even a little food science. The lessons were jam-packed with information. They definitely went home with both their heads and tummies full. It was a great time!

Cooking Matters has grown to serve more than 17,000 families each year.

At the end of the six-week period, the students graduated and were given diplomas, recipe books, and chef’s toques. Aside from having a positive impact on the kids, this was such a rewarding program for me. It was really encouraging to see them getting excited about cooking and figuring out which foods were healthier than others. Childhood hunger, childhood obesity, and healthful eating are true passions of mine, and I believe the only way to better the eating habits of the people of this country is to start with its children. Youngsters and teens who are mindful of nutrition become healthy adults, who then have healthy children. And so the cycle continues. If you'd like to help or volunteer for one of these programs, go to:www.nokidhungry.org 

 Children and adolescents who are obese are likely to be obese as adults.

Here’s an example of one of the dishes the students prepared. Turkey Tacos, loaded with lots of veggies, was definitely one of their favorites. We used low-fat cheese and whole-grain tortillas, which made it a really healthy meal.

• 1/4 cup shredded zucchini
• 1/4 cup shredded carrots
• 1/4 cup diced bell peppers
• 1/4 cup diced onions
• 1 pound lean ground turkey
• 1-15 1/2 ounce can pinto beans
• 1 cup no salt added tomato juice

Seasonings:

• 2 tablespoons chili powder
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

Toppings:

• 8 ounces low fat cheddar cheese
• 1/4 head of romaine lettuce
• 2 large tomatoes
• 8 whole wheat tortillas

Directions: Drain and rinse pinto beans well, using colander.

Coat a large saute pan with non-stick cooking spray, over medium heat saute zucchini, carrots, bell pepper and onion until tender. Add turkey meat to vegetable mixture, cook until browned.

Add pinto beans, tomato juice, tomato paste and all seasonings into saute pan. Stir well.

Grate cheddar cheese, set aside. Rinse lettuce and shred; set aside. Rinse tomatoes and dice; set aside. 

Reduce heat to medium and cooking until thickened, about 20 minutes.Assemble tacos with tortilla, ground turkey mixture, cheddar cheese, and lettuce, and top with diced tomatoes.

Just Peachy: Peach-Blueberry Cobbler

Although the drought we’ve had this summer has been devastating, I've heard that there has been a silver lining of sorts. The naturally occurring sugars in crops such as peaches, grapes, and cantaloupe become more concentrated when water is at a premium. So, even though the fruits are generally smaller because the lack of water failed to plump them up, their flavor has been intensified. Yes, that is small consolation for those poor people in the drought-ravaged areas, and I assume they are not sending up flares in response to this, but the peach lovers out there should.

Well, it just so happened that there'd been a bowl of peaches ripening on my counter for a few days. The fruit was beautiful: the colors ranged from deep yellow to red interspersed with patches of orange. These are the fiery colors of autumn, but peaches are so symbolic of summer, that the irony of it all was...well, ironic.   When that heady, peachy aroma brushed my nostrils each time I passed by the bowl, I knew they were ready, as was I, for cobbler. 

There’s an ongoing debate regarding whether or not to peel the peaches before baking them in a pie or cobbler and this time I chose to go with the “yes” side. I filled a large pot with water and allowed it to come to a slow boil. I made an “X” at the bottom of each peach with a paring knife, and once the water boiled, dropped each one in. After they bobbed around for about three to four minutes (you don’t want to cook them, just loosen the skins), I carefully inched them into a bowl full of ice water using a slotted spoon. I waited a few seconds for them to cool, and slid the skins off. Every once in a while you’ll get a recalcitrant peach, so if that happens, pop the little sucker back into the hot water for another minute or so or merely peel the skin off with the paring knife. Once the fruit was “denuded,” the cobbler-making could begin.

I came across what looked like a wonderful cobbler recipe from Jamie, of the blog Life's A Feast, and I combined it with a portion of my own tried-and-true recipe. The result was a bubbling base of caramelly peaches--soft and almost creamy, not quite hiding beneath the crunchy top biscuits, which served as a  perfect foil. The Maine blueberries added some extra color, and smidge of tartness. Truly a perfect almost-end-of-summer dessert.

Peach-Blueberry Cobbler

(adapted from Life’s A Feast and Nancy Silverton)

                                                       For the Peaches:

1/4c. water

3/4c. granulated sugar, plus 1 Tbsp. for sprinkling over the fruit

1 vanilla bean, split and scraped of seeds

juice from half of a lemon

7 to 8 peaches (3 1/2 lbs.), pitted, peeled, cut into eighths, and cut in half diagonally

2 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg

1/8c. cornstarch

1 heaping cup blueberries

For the Biscuits:

1c. cake flour

1/2c. all-purpose flour

3/4 tsp. salt

1 Tbsp. baking powder

2 Tbsp. granulated sugar plus 2 Tbsp. for sprinkling over biscuits

1/4c. heavy cream

1 egg

1/3c, unsalted butter, cold, cubed

Adjust the oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 400 degrees. Prepare a 9x12-inch rectangular baking dish, and set it aside.

To prepare the peaches: In a large heavy skillet, stir together the water and sugar. Add the vanilla bean scrapings and pod to the sugar mixture. Whisk the seeds into the sugar/water mixture to evenly distribute. Bring the mixture to a boil. Cook for about 3 to 4 minutes, until sugar takes on a darker color. (Tile and swirl the pan to cook evenly.) When the mixture reaches an even medium caramel color, remove from the heat.

Add the peaches, lemon juice, and a few grating of the nutmeg, tossing to coat. (Be careful as the mixture may spatter and the sugar may harden.) Replace the pan over the hot stove and allow it to sit until sugar melts.

Place a large strainer over a bowl and pour in the fruit, straining the liquid into the bowl. Remove the vanilla bean and transfer peaches to the baking dish. In a small cup, whisk together the cornstarch and a tablespoon of the peach liquid. Once it is all mixed together, pour slurry and remaining liquid into the original skillet. Over medium heat, bring mixture to a boil, whisking constantly. Pour the thickened juice over the peaches and scatter the berries evenly throughout.

 To make the biscuits: Sift the flours, baking powder, sugar, and salt together into a large mixing bowl. Toss the cold, cubed butter in the flour then rub the butter into the flour mixture until it resembles cornmeal or damp sand. Make a well in the center; whisk the egg into the cream, and then pour onto the flour mixture. Stir with a fork until well combined and has become a thick batter.

 Drop the dough by very large spoonfuls making an uneven scattering over the fruit, leaving some of the peaches poking through. Brush the dough with a tablespoon of cream and a few gratings of nutmeg. Sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons of the sugar evenly over the dough and bake for 20 to 35 minutes until the biscuits are firm and golden brown, and the liquid is bubbling.

Cool Beans: Cilantro Vinaigrette Bean Salad

School bells are ringing, the days are getting shorter, and the temps are dropping...sort of. While autumn is nipping at summer’s heels, and a slight chill is wrapping itself around the morning hours like a light cardigan, there is still time to have a picnic or outdoor barbecue. 

Side dishes have always been my favorite part of any outdoor feast, but it’s been my experience that the traditional Bean Salad has never been a huge crowd pleaser. The dressing is always watery, and often a little too vinegary for my taste. I’m not a big fan of canned wax beans, and can’t understand why they are often included in this dish. 

This Bean Salad below is a tasty twist on the classic. The Cilantro Vinaigrette is a bit thicker than the standard sweet/sour dressing, thus the beans don’t get as soggy. It can be prepared ahead of time and added to the rest of the ingredients just before serving.  The combo of beans can vary according to your taste. I like to use a variety of colors and sizes. The corn also adds color and a bit of crunch.

Head outside and warm your face in the sun for just a little while longer.  Don’t forget the  sunscreen...and the picnic basket.

Cilantro Vinaigrette Bean Salad

Dressing:

1/2c. cider vinegar

1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

1 1/2 tsp. ground cumin

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

1 tsp. salt

1 c. extra virgin olive oil

juice from 1/2 lemon

1 cup cilantro leaves, chopped

Combine all ingredients in a blender and pulse until almost smooth

Salad:

1 can red kidney beans, drained

1 can garbanzo beans, drained

1 can black beans, drained

1 can corn, drained

1/2 large red onion, minced

Combine all of the salad ingredients in a large bowl. Pour the dressing on top.  Gently mix until everything is well coated with dressing.

Chocolate Almond Crumb Bars

I first began collecting recipes when I was in my twenties. This was pre-Internet days, so many of the recipes I culled were taken from women’s magazines and the weekly food sections of various newspapers. I would sometimes cut out the recipes, but more often I would retype them (yes, on a real typewriter) on small index cards. These cards were kept in a long, wooden file--the kind that contained the card catalogs at the libraries back in the day. I still have that file, and I have to admit that I now keep it more for sentimental reasons than for actual cooking purposes. But every once in a while I get a flash of a recipe I haven't made in years, and know the odds are it is in that file.

Such is the case with these Crumb Bars. I can’t say exactly where the recipe came from, but the card it is stapled to is stained and discolored enough for me to know that I made it quite often. These bars are hefty, and I’ve substituted some whole wheat flour for some of the all-purpose, so they are even a tad wholesome. The center is fudgy; the cream cheese gives it a subtle tanginess. It will be hard to resist the crunchy browned edges as you cut them away to make perfect squares, so keep them on the side for some private snacking.

As the summer, sadly, winds down, so goes the picnic season. Now is a great time to squeeze in a few more al fresco outings. Stack a few Crumb Bars in one container, add some cut-up, still-luscious peaches in another, and you’ve got yourself a great dessert to pop into the picnic basket. While you make your last grasps at the waning warm days ahead, you will be sustained with a perfect  picnic treat that won't wilt (or melt) under the sun's hot rays.

                                          Beneath the trees where nobody sees, 

They'll hide and seek as long as they please.

Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

       

Chocolate Almond Crumb Bars

1 cup (6 oz.) bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

1 cup (6 oz.) milk chocolate, coarsely chopped

8 oz. cream cheese, softened

2/3 cup (5.3-ounce can) evaporated milk

1 cup chopped walnuts (opt.)

1/2 tsp. almond extract

2 1/3 cups all-purpose flour

2/3 cup whole wheat flour

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1 cup unsalted butter, at room temp.

2 eggs

1/2 tsp. almond extract

Combine bittersweet and milk chocolates, cream cheese, and evaporated milk in a medium saucepan. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until chocolate pieces are melted and mixture is smooth. Remove from heat; stir in 1/2 tsp. almond extract and chopped walnuts, if using. Blend well; set aside. In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine butter, sugar, baking powder, and flours until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add remaining 1/2 tsp. almond extract and beaten eggs and continue to blend until large clumps are formed. Press half of mixture into a greased 9x13-inch pan that has been lined with parchment paper; spread with chocolate mixture. Sprinkle remaining crumbs over filling. Bake at 375 degrees for 30 minutes, lower temperature to 350 degrees and bake for an additional 15 minutes.  Cool; cut into bars. Makes about 3 dozen bars.